Christopher Sly. I am Christophero Sly; call not me 'honour' nor 'lordship.' I
ne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves,
give me conserves of beef. Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear,
for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than
155legs, nor no more shoes than feet- nay, sometime more feet than
shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.

Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour!
O, that a mighty man of such descent,
Of such possessions, and so high esteem,
160Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

Christopher Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old
Sly's son of Burton Heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a
cardmaker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present
profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of
165Wincot, if she know me not; if she say I am not fourteen pence on
the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lying'st knave in
Christendom. What! I am not bestraught. [Taking a pot of ale]Here's-

First Servant. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift
As breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe.

Second Servant. Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee
straight
Adonis painted by a running brook,
195And Cytherea all in sedges hid,
Which seem to move and wanton with her breath
Even as the waving sedges play wi' th' wind.

Lord. We'll show thee Io as she was a maid
And how she was beguiled and surpris'd,
200As lively painted as the deed was done.

Third Servant. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,
Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds
And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,
So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.
205

Lord. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord.
Thou hast a lady far more beautiful
Than any woman in this waning age.

First Servant. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee
Like envious floods o'er-run her lovely face,
210She was the fairest creature in the world;
And yet she is inferior to none.

Christopher Sly. Am I a lord and have I such a lady?
Or do I dream? Or have I dream'd till now?
I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak;
215I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things.
Upon my life, I am a lord indeed,
And not a tinker, nor Christopher Sly.
Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;
And once again, a pot o' th' smallest ale.
220

Second Servant. Will't please your Mightiness to wash your hands?
O, how we joy to see your wit restor'd!
O, that once more you knew but what you are!
These fifteen years you have been in a dream;
Or, when you wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept.
225

Christopher Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.
But did I never speak of all that time?

First Servant. O, yes, my lord, but very idle words;
For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,
Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door;
230And rail upon the hostess of the house,
And say you would present her at the leet,
Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd quarts.
Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

Third Servant. Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid,
Nor no such men as you have reckon'd up,
As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,
And Peter Turph, and Henry Pimpernell;
And twenty more such names and men as these,
240Which never were, nor no man ever saw.

Page. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you
265To pardon me yet for a night or two;
Or, if not so, until the sun be set.
For your physicians have expressly charg'd,
In peril to incur your former malady,
That I should yet absent me from your bed.
270I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

Christopher Sly. Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long. But I would be
loath to fall into my dreams again. I will therefore tarry in
despite of the flesh and the blood.

Enter a MESSENGER

Messenger. Your honour's players, hearing your amendment,
Are come to play a pleasant comedy;
For so your doctors hold it very meet,
Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood,
And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
280Therefore they thought it good you hear a play
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,
Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

Christopher Sly. Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a comonty a
Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick?
285